


By my side

by Builder



Series: We fit like an Enfit [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Tube Feeding, Vomiting, tubie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29273760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: The urge to throw up presses in around Steve’s neck and chin, and he swallows hard, tasting salt and bile on his saliva. He swears under his breath, then claps a hand over his mouth to keep both the word and the impending sick trapped inside.At the same moment, the doorknob rattles, and the door to the apartment opens. James stands in the doorway, sweatshirt pushed up to the elbow on his prosthetic arm.“Hey,” says James brightly. Then, “What’s up?” When he focuses on Steve.“Mm,” Steve forces out. “Not feeling so good.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: We fit like an Enfit [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149839
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	By my side

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

Steve finishes typing up the story from his notebook onto his hard drive, then closes his laptop and sets it aside. His stomach’s been gurgling loudly for the last hour, and he isn’t sure how long it’ll hold before something undesirable happens.

Steve pops the mini can of ginger ale that sits on the side table and takes a tentative sip. The fluid goes down easily enough, but it feels cold and hard on his gut. Steve makes a face and sets that aside as well. He looks down at his backpack and the long whitish tail that hangs out one side and disappears up under his shirt. He’s still got at least 2 hours to go before he can come off the feed, though he’s already longing for later in the evening when he can free himself from the tube and take a long, hot shower, preferably with James behind the curtain with him.

Steve sighs as a blush floods across his cheeks, followed by a rush of hot nausea. He closes his eyes and shakes his head for a second, but the feeling doesn’t abate. He dips his head, putting chin to chest, but all that does is yank his stomach up into the region of his throat.

Steve lets out his breath, knowing he isn’t likely to vomit, and even if he does, he can’t regurgitate food. His formula enters his body through the small intestine, so it’s too low to come back up through the mouth. The tiny amounts he does take orally might sit in his stomach almost indefinitely due to the organ’s paralysis, but he hasn’t had anything recently, save the sip of ginger ale.

The rotten feeling inside him grows, and Steve pulls his feet up off the floor and tucks them tightly beneath his body. He wraps his arms around his shins and buries his face in his knees. “You’re fine,” Steve tells himself. “It’s fine. It’ll pass…”

And it does, sort of. The cramp rises to a sharp pain that hits between his stoma and his navel, then begins to ease off. However, it leaves a stronger feeling of nausea in its wake.

“Ugh,” Steve groans. He pits his head back down, but then lifts it momentarily to glance at the living room wall clock. It’s nearly 6, and high time for James to be arriving home. Steve wants to pull himself together, but even more so, he’s desperate for James’s help. Exactly what that looks like, Steve isn’t sure, but it has to get him out of this nauseated limbo at least.

Steve feels a wash of hot saliva drift over his back teeth, and he swallows hard, setting his jaw. “Not now,” he mumbles. “Not today.” He wants to be in a good mood when James gets home. He wants to sit at the table together, then hop in the shower and maybe share some cuddles before he has to hook back ip to his feed and go to bed.

His stomach makes a loud gurgle again, as if making fun of his plan. The urge to throw up presses in around Steve’s neck and chin, and he swallows hard, tasting salt and bile on his saliva. He swears under his breath, then claps a hand over his mouth to keep both the word and the impending sick trapped inside.

At the same moment, the doorknob rattles, and the door to the apartment opens. James stands in the doorway, sweatshirt pushed up to the elbow on his prosthetic arm.

“Hey,” says James brightly. Then, “What’s up?” When he focuses on Steve.

“Mm,” Steve forces out. “Not feeling so good.”

“Aw, geez, ok.” James shuts the door behind him and hurries to Steve’s side, dropping his bag and kicking off his shoes beside the welcome mat.

“Look at you,” he says as he squats in front of Steve and takes both his hands, prying them away from his mouth. “You’re sweating bullets.”

“Am I?” Steve gives his his head a small shake, and sure enough, his hair is now stuck to his forehead.

“You need the bathroom?” James asks

“Starting to think so,” Steve admits. “I was thinking I was fine, then out of nowhere, just my stomach—“

The begging of a retch works its way up his throat, and Steve swallows frantically.

“Ok, come on.” James takes Steve under the arms and lightly sets him on his feet, then leads him down the short hall into the bathroom.

Steve kneels before the toilet and rests his forehead on the seat, suddenly too tired and trembly to hold it up. James’s hand appears on the back of Steve’s neck. “You’re warm,” he comments. “Sure you’re not running a fever?”

“Uh,” Steve starts, apit running down his lip. “Check later?”

“Sure,” James agrees.

Steve reaches backward to pat James’s knee, then grips the edges of the toilet bowl. He slams his eyes shut as his body heaves, and the ginger ale comes up mixed with thick yellow bile.

“‘S ok,” James soothes. “Just get it up.”

Steve doesn’t need encouraging. He hangs his jaw open, and more flows out, catching his lip and chin. Then his breath dissolves into deep pants.

“Done?” James asks after a couple of minutes, rubbing circles into Steve’s shoulder blades.

Steve nods, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Want me to turn off your feed?” James offers, reaching for Steve’s backpack.

“It’s too early still,” Steve says hoarsely.

“But it can’t feel good, running into you when you’re all churned up.”

He has a point. Steve nods and lets him turn off the pump and undo the extension.

“There,” James says, laying flat the hem of Steve’s shirt. “Feel better?”

“A little,” Steve replies.

“You look a little better. Still off, but less likely to pop.” James smiles.

“‘S good, I guess.”

“Now, what do you think?” James asks. “Shower, then bed? I’ll go with you to make sure you don’t pass out in there.” There’s a twinkle of laughter in his eye.

“Sounds amazing,” Steve says. “All of it.”

He gets shakily to his feet and begins to strip. “As long as you don’t mind spending your evening taking care of me.”

James stands as well and oulls his sweatshirt over his head. “Couldn’t think of a better way to spend it.”


End file.
